House for the broken
by Danielle Everlark
Summary: Post Mockingjay plot-line. Katniss and Peeta struggle with their lives after the rebellion. Will Peeta recover from the highjacking? How will Katniss cope with all the memories of Prim and the Games? Haha read and find out! (I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE CHARACTERS AND ALL THAT FANCY STUFF, I DO THIS FOR FUN.)
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Nightmares. They come every night, sometimes even when I close my eyes or blink. Peeta says that it will be ok, that he is here to protect me. But sometimes in the middle of the night when my thrashing does not wake him up, I don't think I'll ever be ok again. They are almost all the same, switching between the arena and the tributes that I killed, their faces haunting my dreams, paralyzing me and filling my every ounce and fiber of my being with terror, remorse and regret. After a while their features begin to morph and transform into the snarling lizard mutts. Everything changes except for the eyes. Those eyes that bore into my soul asking that same question over and over again – Why? Why couldn't you save me too? – It makes for a weird combination as they rip my body limb from limb, and somehow all the more terrifying.

Finally after what seems like forever, I drift into the black abyss and my eyes close. Instead of darkness a small blonde head appears, starting far off and slowly drifting closer and closer until it is visible but still out of my grasp. I know who it is just by the way her hair falls into two neat braids on either side of her face. A small gust of wind blows and causes a few wisps of hair to fall on her forehead, framing her face and bringing out her startling blue eyes. Then just off in the distance a warm glow lights up, slowly getting brighter and brighter until I can feel the heat of the flame. The glow illuminates her face and hair, making her seem as if she was spun from gold. This doesn't last for long though, and soon I am in the courtyard of the Capitol as alert as ever. Frantic people dart around each other in colorful, bright, – and somewhat garish – clothing; trying to get away from an unseen foe. I know what happens next - I have been reliving this moment every day of my life for the past year – and I run towards the circle of kids opening parachutes that appear to my right. No matter how fast I run I never make it. The parachutes go off, raining fire and unrecognizable human parts everywhere. Off to my left a flash of blonde catches my eye. I know it is her; I know that it is Prim. Heart racing, lungs crying for oxygen I run toward her. "Prim no!" I yell with tears in my eyes. I am not sure if it is from the acrid smoke or from what I know will happen next: what always happens next. Silently she turns towards me, a glint of recognition flashing before her eyes. Her lips just start to form my name, but I know that her sweet voice will never reach them. There is a loud boom and the rest of the remaining parachutes explode. The shock wave knocks me on my back and the rest of the air that was in my lungs leave them. I lay there gasping for air, unable to think or feel anything other than one thought bouncing in my head, shaking me to my very core_. You killed her… you killed her… you failed and now she is dead because of you… you killed her… _

I wake up sweating and trembling with a scream trying to claw its way out of my throat. "Prim…" I whisper, and that's all I can get out before the sobs rack my body leaving me breathless and weak. Wringing my hands in ways that I didn't know were possible, I let the grief and guilt overcome me like a wave. It reaches into the depths of my sorrow and pain, bringing them to the surface fresh and new, causing me to choke on my own wails. When I am done crying I turn and look out my window, early morning light filters in through it, catching the dust particles and making them shine while they dance through the air. Still struggling to catch my breath I stare at the window a little while longer. I find it amazing how these little _inanimate _objects have such a better life than I do right now; dancing and twirling in the sunlight, unable to feel loss or sorrow, something I can't seem to avoid. Carefully I reach into my dresser drawer, my scarred hands searching for the parachute that I know is there. Grabbing the pearl that Peeta gave me I close my eyes and rub its cool, smooth surface between the palms of my rough yet clammy hands, trying to calm down my racing thoughts of guilt, sorrow and anger at myself. Footsteps sound off behind me, not quite soft but careful; like the sound of someone who was trying to be quiet but couldn't really. They stop in the doorway of my room.

Silently I take and shaky but deep breath and slip the pearl into my pocket, trying to sooth my still panicky heart. As I turn towards the door I know who I will see standing there; I was right. Peeta stands in the doorway leaning against the wood, arms crossed, showing off his muscular frame obtained from all those years of tossing hundred pound flour sacks over his head. There is a worried look on his face and his dirty blonde hair is slightly tousled, giving him an oddly attractive boyish look with a hint of confusion. The sight of this makes my heart skip a beat. Confused by this new feeling, I frown, making my already tight scarred skin sting a little bit. It still isn't completely healed from the time when I caught fire, the time that Prim— _No shut up _I told myself,_ you can't think about her right now, not with Peeta._ But the thought only makes the grief surface again and I choke down a wail that seems determined to let itself be known. "Hey there Katniss." He says softly, coming to sit down with me on the edge of my bed. "I heard you crying from down in the kitchen. Did you have another nightmare?" he asks, his voice dripping with worry. "Y-yes" I stammer "but I am fine now." Based on the doubt-filled look that he gives me, I know that he doesn't believe it for one second. Instead of questioning me like any other person would do, he just nods his head, understanding. He stares at me for a while, his icy blue eyes soft with love. I find I like those eyes a lot better than the other hard, rage-filled eyes that take their place when he flashes back from the high-jacking that the Capitol did to him. His face softens, losing that worried look that I had become accustomed to and takes my hand in his. "Come on," he says, eyes twinkling "I made some bacon and eggs. But beware, it's my first time and the stove is different than the one I have at home. So feel free to puke afterwards if you need to!" I laugh, silently thanking him for not asking me about my dream and Prim, if he did I would have another breakdown and then he would be asking me if I was ok all day. As we walk down the narrow hall to the kitchen hand in hand my heart feels oddly light, as if it leapt out of my chest and started to float in the air. The pressure of his hand against mine, warm, callused and strong comforts me and I realize that this was the first time I have laughed in months. I shiver a little, not with fear or guilt, but with happiness. Peeta must have noticed, and he looks back and smiles at me. I hesitate a little but then I smile back too, and a little of the depression that I have been feeling for the past months lifts itself off of my shoulders, and flies off into the distance.

END OF CHAPTER ONE

**Page 5**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Standing in the doorway of the kitchen I watch as Peeta fills my plate with undercooked eggs, half burnt bacon and – somewhat surprisingly – perfect butter toast. I know it shouldn't surprise me that much, considering that he was born and raised as a baker's son; but it still gets me every time he pulls a loaf of perfect bread out of the ovens, or softly brushes his paintbrush against a canvas, creating something beautiful out of nothing but a few colors and a blank cloth. "Mmm looks good!" I lie, trying not to hurt his pride. He laughs, pulling me into his arms and giving me a little kiss on the forehead. Normally I would stop him; still feeling guilty about how I lied to him for the whole time during and even after our first games, but this time I do not. "Sure, lie all you want. Not even you are able to sugarcoat my horrible cooking Katniss. Maybe I should stick to bread and painting." he says jokingly, his smile spreading to his eyes "Those are the only things I seem to be good at." I try to think of a witty comeback, but none comes to mind. So after an awkward silence of about two minutes I grab his hand and pull him towards the table, but his artificial leg gets caught on the edge, sending us both sprawling to the floor, plates and all. I reach my hands out to break our fall, but it does not work and we land in a pile of broken glass and crushed food.

The sunlight streaming in through the windows that outline the edge of the kitchen shine down on the glass, making the floor look like it is sprinkled with diamonds. There is a burning pain in my arms and side, and I can see my blood begin to seep out of my wounds in my arm and torso, staining my once light blue nightshirt a deep purple. The blood pools in a puddle on the floor and gets caught up in the shards of glass, making them lose their shine. I lay there on the floor staring at the pool, and all the while memories I don't want to resurface come back to me, transporting me to a different time and place. I am at the pods again, just outside the Capitol, Peeta is going berserk, throwing Mitchell into the barbed wire net. Then I am at the reaping, volunteering for Prim, and my voice dry and raspy. Again I watch Prim die, landing on my back, the breath knocked out from my lungs. _No wait,_ I think _I can't breathe. I really can't breathe!_


	3. Chapter 3

Hello people on the interwebs! Sorry for the long wait on updating. I am not joking when I say I had a crap-load of homework for my AP classes. So I planned on writing more over Spring Break but unfortunately I got writers block… Anyway I will let you read this now! OH and don't forget to review! I accept all criticism. (I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS!)

Chapter 3

I snap back to earth and find Peeta is clutching my throat, his eyes hard and filled with rage. The gentle, loving Peeta I know is gone, replaced by the insane man that the Capitol high-jacked to kill me. All my instincts tell me to fight – to grab the nearest shard of glass and plunge it into his chest – but I do not do that. I let him stay there choking the life out of me, and as darkness appears on the edge of my vision I slowly reach my hand up and touch his face; running my fingers over his jawline and through his hair. The blood on my hands smears off on his face, contrasting against his dark angry eyes. He flinches, and for a moment those soft blue eyes come back to me, filled with terror. Then they flash back as hard and icy as ever.

"Mutt you're a mutt! You did this! You're a Mutt! A filthy, lying, manipulating Mutt!" He screams, letting go of my throat to grab a knife that was laid out on the table. I collapse to the ground coughing, rubbing my throat that is already forming bruises, deep purple and blue mixed with green. Before he can come at me with the knife and stab me, I pull myself off the ground and run to where he is standing. When he lunges at me with the knife I doge – having a lot of experience in this area with Haymitch – grabbing his face softly in my hands, look right into his eyes and kiss him hard on the lips. The knife clatters to the floor as I close my eyes and run my fingers along his neck and through his hair.

All the while he shudders underneath me, tense and alert. When I release him from my grasp, rubbing my throat and trying to catch my breath, I see that he has returned to his normal self. His face is contorted with shock and terror, eyes wide and filled with regret. I look down to see his hands are shaking, clenching open and closed. "Katniss… I – I… Oh God, NO!" He whispers, as his voice cracks with grief and sorrow. He steps away from me and I look up just in time to see him dart out of the room, sprinting as fast as his leg would let him; now it is my turn to be worried.

Leaning against the kitchen table, I slowly catch my breath and think about what just happened. _What could've set him off? Was it the blood all over the floor, or did I do something while I was reminiscing? Was it my fault like all of the other lives that I have taken or ruined? _Pushing the thoughts out of my mind I push myself off of the table and go to find Peeta. I got a few steps out into the hallway before I have to stop and lean against the wall to stop the world from spinning. When I regain my senses, I continue down the hall. My feet are stained red with blood and sweat, leaving a trail of pink footsteps in their wake. When I get to the end of the hall, I turn left and continue to walk down this one.

Without the path of knocked over tables, crooked picture frames and bloody handprints that mark the walls I probably would not have known where to go. I haven't really spent much time looking around the house; actually, the only rooms that I have been in were the kitchen, living room, my bedroom, and the study. So I spend most of my time in the woods hunting, or walking around town giving some of the game to people who need it. While walking down the hallway on what Peeta calls my "hunter's feet", I hear someone whispering to themselves. Immediately my mind thinks of Peeta, and all of the suffering he must be in right now. Just thinking of this makes tears run down my cheeks.

Silently I wipe the tears from my face – chastising myself for being so weak – and make my way towards the sound. It is coming from a room towards my right, and I can see the doorknob is slightly scratched; as if someone had tried to fit a key in the keyhole hurriedly and missed. "Peeta?" I whisper, as I grab hold of the now red doorknob. "Peeta, are you ok?" When he does not answer I turn the doorknob and find it locked. "Damn you Peeta!" I shout "open the door!" He still does not answer, but I can hear someone on the other side. "Peeta I am coming in!" I yell and brace myself for the pain that will ensue when I break down the door. Taking a few steps back I turn my not-so-injured shoulder to the door. Getting a running start I slam my shoulder into the door. The door shakes on its hinges but does not break down. I try this a few more times before I have to give up because I am just making my arm even worse, driving not only the glass but new wooden splinters deeper into my flesh.

Silently I lean against the wall, thinking of new tactics and strategies. I am just about to give up and call Haymitch – an idea that I resent – when I think of something. I run out into the shed in the backyard and grab what I am looking for. It is a sledgehammer. Running back into the house I try not drop the tremendous weight on my feet. _How do people even use this thing?! _I think to myself. By the time I get back to the door, I am already tired. Gathering all the strength I have left I lift the hammer over my head and bring it crashing down in the center of the door.

When it hits, I realize that all the bracing I have done would not prepare me for the bone-jarring force that travels up and through my arms, leaving a ringing in my ears. I open and close my eyes a few times to stop my eyeballs from rattling around my brain and look at what damage – if any – that the hammer has done. To my surprise I see that there is a giant, jagged hole in the door, close to the doorknob. I chuckle, thinking of what Effie would be saying to me if she saw her beloved mahogany door in this shape.

Inspecting the hole I find that it is big enough for my hand to fit though. Very carefully I stick my hand through it: wincing as the wood jabs into my wrist and palm of my hand. The wood cuts my wrist as I feel around for the doorknob on the other side, but I ignore it. Finally I find it – the cool metal feels nice on my hot and sticky skin – and turn the knob until I hear the click that says the lock has been unlocked. Opening the door I try and brace my mental self for what I know will lie behind that cold, broken slab of wood. As I open it, the hinges creak from disuse, making me jump slightly.

The room is dark, with only the natural light from outside to brighten it up. All around the room there is paintbrushes, cans of paint, and stiff paint covered tarps on the floor. Looking around I notice that on the walls there is random blotches of color. They range from dark brown, wispy blues and greens, to the same dull grey color of my eyes. Turning my head from side to side I see a dark shape huddled in the corner of the room. A closer look tells me that it is Peeta. He is crouched in a corner, his head is cradled in his arms: hands running through his hair, releasing and clenching, making his hair stand up where the sweat stuck. I can barely see his mouth forming words, but I cannot tell what he is saying. The sight of this leaves me lost for words.

So instead of saying anything, I walk over to where he sits, ignoring the sharp, lightening-like pains that the glass sends through my body whenever I move. I sit down next to him – not sure whether to comfort him, or to run out of the room – and look around the room to get a better idea of where I am. From this angle you can see the whole room, and I am able to see what I wasn't able to before. The seemingly random spots of paint on the wall suddenly come together, forming something I could only dream of. Soft, lush, green forests pop out at me, painted with such skill it almost makes me think it is real. There is spots where it looks like half of a face or tree is painted, but was not yet finished. "Oh…" I sigh, my voice caught in my throat. I pull my hands up from their resting place in my lap and brace them against the wall to help me up.

Walking over to the unfinished mural I run my fingers along the wall: slowly following the dips and curves of paint that could only be formed by Peeta's hands. I picture him in this room, brow furrowed with concentration, the last of the light fading from the sunset, casting an orange glow on his face: making his hair shine like the sun, and bringing out his square, strong jawline. Silently I shake my head, forcing the image from my mind. I cannot think of him like that right now, not when he is in so much pain and suffering. Actually every time I think of him a rush of emotions that I cannot process rushes over me, so I try to keep him from my mind.

With this thought in mind, I turn around and walk to where Peeta is crouched. Sitting down on the ground, I just stare at him helplessly, unsure of what to do. "Peeta?" I ask "are you okay?" He does not answer, instead he starts to shake violently, muscles rippling like waves under his shirt. "Peeta?! Please answer me! Please! It's not real… it's okay… it's not real." I cry, repeating it over and over, while my voice cracks and fails as I start to sob. I am not sure what snaps him out of it and brings him back to reality: my repeating of the words not real or the sound of me sobbing.

The shaking slowly subsides to a tremble – even though there is still a slight tremor running through his hands – and he slowly starts to remove his head from the cage that his arms formed. Looking up at me with a confused face, he asks me in a shaky voice "I-it's not real?" I am reminded of Prim and how confused and scared she would get after having a nightmare, and this is no different. "No, no it's not real… I am right here." I say, trying to keep my voice as soothing as possible. I can see his eyes lose the rest of the dilated look and return to normal.

Looking closer at his face I can see it is soaked in tears, making the area in and around his startling blue eyes red and puffy. "Katniss?" he asks, voice rough from crying "Why did you let me hurt you like that?" Shocked, I search the farthest recesses of my mind for an answer, but I find none. "I don't know..." I look around the room, trying to avoid his piercing gaze, not wanting to see what lurks in his thoughts. Something inside of me gives in and I look at him. His face is rigid with pain and guilt.

It is not just physical pain, - though that plays a role – but it is the type of pain that is so raw and powerful, that it makes your heart ache and leaves you with even more questions and doubts. As I move my eyes downward, not wanting to meet his gaze any longer: I can see the muscles in his forearms are twitching nervously, and he is wrapping his restless thumbs in the hem of his ripped shirt.

"How can I be around you – or anyone – if I snap every time I see blood or a plate of food crashes to the ground? I am afraid, Katniss… What happens if next time you can't stop me or I don't snap out of it?! I don't want to hurt you!" His voice is rising to a shout now: and I can see his chest rapidly rise and fall as his breathing becomes more frantic and urgent. "I just don't want to lose you Katniss… How am I supposed to protect you if I can't even protect you from myself?!" I have always wondered what goes on in the boy with the bread's head, but know that I know it hurts my heart.

Peeta opens his mouth to say more but I silence him with a soft kiss on the lips. "Oh Peeta…" I reply, grabbing his trembling hands in mine "You don't need to protect me from yourself." I have never been very good at comforting people, so I am surprised when Peeta relaxes a little bit and his breathing slows down to a more normal rate. However his eyes are still frantic and a little wild looking from my blood that is smeared on his face. Somehow the sight of blood on his face at all disturbs me and I feel my face frown involuntarily.

"Come on," I whisper "let's go get you cleaned up." Nodding, he looks down at our entwined hands, flinching as he sees the drying blood that stains them. Removing my hands from his so I can get up, I move to stand up. My muscles are stiff and protest as I get up from my place on the wall. I reach my hand out to help Peeta up and for the first time I notice just how many shards of glass, ceramic and wood are embedded in there. My arm looks like a mini porcupine, but oddly enough there is not much pain, just a dull throbbing that runs up through it. Peeta notices my arm immediately and I can see a flash of horror run across his eyes.

"Oh what have I done?" he whispers. "It doesn't really hurt that much," I explain, trying to give him a little peace "it just throbs a little. Really I can handle it." He is still staring at my arm in a daze, so I gently place my hand on his face and wipe away some of the blood with my thumb. This seems to snap him out of it and he comes back to me, eyes tender with love. "I am sorry." He says as he takes my hand and pulls himself up "I just don't like seeing you hurt…" "I know." I say, my face twisting into what I am sure is a grimace when I see the cuts that run like ribbons down the far side of his arms: an area that I couldn't see when he was sitting down. "Believe me, the feeling is mutual."

Putting my hand in his I take one last look at the brilliant yet unfinished painting before turning around and walking out of the broken, shattered door.

Thank you to all of the people who read this far! Hope you liked it and don't forget to R&R!


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